


Rogue Nation

by china_shop



Series: White Collar season 1: Mission Impossible [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Divided Loyalties, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Multi, Near Drowning, Polyamory, intimacy is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: In which Kate survives, Peter and El make a move, and Neal has to choose. (An AU ending for season 1.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The endgame is Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, but I’ve tried to do Kate and Neal/Kate justice. 
> 
> Apologies to Lauren Cruz for neglecting her as much as the real 1.14 did. Some dialogue taken from 1.14. Spoilers to the end of season 2. Written for wc_rewatch. 
> 
> A squillion thanks to mergatrude for first-reading and beta, and to Sherylyn for beta and Ameripicking. *showers you both with hearts*

Peter sat alone in Neal’s apartment, watching the sun come up, listening to June’s staff bustle around downstairs and counting the hours till his two-week suspension would be over and he could start the wheels turning to have Neal’s anklet reinstated. 

Last night, Neal had staged some kind of elaborate music box heist with Mozzie and Alex, but only one person was mentioned in the APB: a Caucasian man in a suit, seen rappelling down the wall of the Italian consulate. And not knowing where Neal was, sitting here helpless while he was no doubt making the exchange with Fowler and running off with Kate—it was unbearable. Their partnership, all their potential slipping away.

Then the door opened, and Neal walked in. He confessed to the heist without prevarication, dropped into the chair beside Peter, tired and defeated, and admitted Alex had disappeared with the box. “Without that box, Fowler’s side wins.”

Peter leaned across the table. “I need to know, what about us? Are we on the same side here?”

“You said I earned the right to make my own choices,” countered Neal. “You changing your mind?”

Peter shook his head. Much as he hoped Neal would make the right call, he couldn’t force it, not anymore.

“Fowler's still out there.” Neal didn’t add, _And so is Kate,_ but he didn’t have to. Peter knew what he was thinking, could see the desperation that had kept him out searching for Alex all night. He didn’t have the box, had failed to rescue Kate. It was up to Peter now—to save her, to give Neal a real choice. To find out who was behind all this.

He grabbed his coat and stood up. “This isn't over yet.”

“What do you mean by that?” Neal sounded suspicious.

“I've got some things in play.” Diana was going after Fowler’s hard drive, with Clinton as her backup, and if everything went according to plan, Peter had a meeting in an hour. At this stage, the less Neal knew the better.

 

*

 

“I still think we should be doing this at the Bureau,” said Hughes, surveying with distaste the dusty, abandoned restaurant Kate had named as the rendezvous point. “Don’t we have grounds to charge her with obstruction and bring her in?”

Peter was checking the kitchen to make sure there’d be no surprises. “We need to earn her trust. Kate Moreau is our best lead to find out who Fowler’s working for, and just how deep the rot in OPR goes. It has to be off-book.”

Hughes sighed and sat at a table by a window. Peter nearly asked him to move to a less visible position, but they were on the second floor, and the glass was semi-opaque with dirt. No one would see them. 

He’d rather have met Kate one-on-one, but he was still on suspension and needed Hughes to make this official. It was Hughes who’d organized the paperwork. 

“Do you trust this girl? How do we know her information’s good, or this isn’t a trap?”

Peter pressed his lips together. Hughes was out on a limb for him, again, and Peter wasn’t going to lie. “Neal trusts her.”

“That’s not especially reassuring.”

“She’s—”

“Our only lead. You said.” Hughes sat back, clearly washing his hands of the whole thing. “This is your show, Peter. You do the talking.” They waited in silence for several minutes, Peter resisting the urge to pace, listening to the whisper-faint tick of his watch. Hughes sighed. “Do you think she’s going to show this time? I do have other things I should be doing.”

This was the third time Kate had rescheduled, and she was already a quarter of an hour late. Peter was about to answer, to stall Hughes, when the service door swung open and Kate strode in, breathless and flushed in the cheeks. “I was followed and had to double back,” she said, in lieu of an apology. “It’s getting harder to get away.” She stopped dead when she saw Hughes and turned on Peter. “This was supposed to be a private meeting.”

“And it would have been, but your pal Fowler had me suspended. Hughes is here representing the Bureau. We want to make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Kate’s hands were deep in her coat pockets. She was probably still carrying.

Peter didn’t want to speculate how Hughes would react if she drew on them. He moved to the table and sat down, silently inviting Kate to join them, to make it a civilized discussion between adults instead of the melodramatic cloak-and-dagger bullshit she and Neal were so fond of.

She hesitated, then took the chair across from him and folded her arms on the table. “What kind of deal?”

“Protection.” Peter pushed an envelope across the table containing the agreement. “You give us enough to go after whoever’s behind Fowler, and we’ll put you in WITSEC. You and Neal can correspond through the marshals’ service, and when his parole is up, he can join you, if that’s what you both still want.”

Kate took out the contract and flicked through it, narrow-eyed. Peter set his Quantico pen on the table between them. 

Her lip curled. “You know, this sounds great, but I already cut a deal with Fowler. One that doesn’t mean waiting another three years.”

Peter forced himself not to react; he hadn’t expected that, but he knew how to counter it. “And you really think he’ll make good on it.” He studied her, trying to see past her poker face. “Fowler’s a crook. You know he framed Neal and tried to get him locked up on a third strike.”

Kate barely reacted. “You don’t know anything.” 

Which only made sense if… “That was before your deal,” said Peter, slowly. “That’s how he was controlling you.”

Kate shook her head, but it was an unconvincing denial. 

Hughes scowled, obviously wanting to intervene, but Peter gestured to forestall him. He could handle this. They couldn’t appeal to Kate’s feelings directly, not when they weren’t sure of her loyalties, but she’d been watching from the shadows, and whatever her motives, she knew Neal. “Who are you going to trust, Kate—Fowler or me?”

The right answer seemed axiomatic, but Kate hesitated.

Peter shook his head. “Who would Neal want you to trust?”

“He’d want me to trust him,” she said, flat and honest. “You think you’re so smart, but if Fowler can manipulate Neal’s tracking data and frame him for a diamond heist, he can find us in WITSEC. And in the end, you’re both FBI—what’s the difference?”

Peter was tempted to take the pen _and_ the contract back, withdraw his offer completely, but they still needed her to get Fowler. Neal needed her. 

“We’re both FBI,” he agreed, “but only one of us wants the music box, and Neal doesn’t have it.”

“He’ll get it.” Kate raised her chin. “You don’t know Neal.”

“I know he and Alex Hunter stole the box last night, and Alex double-crossed him. She’s disappeared with the music box and will probably never be seen or heard from again.” Peter pushed the pen closer. “Take the deal, Kate.”

Kate stared at him, the anger on her face warring with despair. She glanced down at the papers, the WITSEC logo emblazoned on the top page. The FBI’s signature line already filled out by Hughes.

A phone rang—hers—and she took it from her pocket and answered, not bothering to excuse herself. “Yeah.” Then her jaw firmed. She glanced at Peter, her eyes going cold. “Okay,” she said into the phone. “One hour.”

She hung up. “Neal just delivered the box to Fowler. I don’t need your help, Peter, and no, I don’t trust you or your FBI friend. You’ll say anything—”

“Alex must have changed her mind,” said Peter. Or Neal had found Alex somehow, or the little guy had. Whatever had happened, the timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Right.” Kate snatched up the pen and scrawled a signature on the WITSEC papers. Except it wasn’t a signature: she’d written “FUCK YOU!”

She pushed her chair back and stood, and Peter followed suit, ready to try again to convince her, when out of the corner of his eye, through the filthy window, he caught a glint from a building across the street. He turned, his instincts reacting before he could process what he’d seen. Time slowed. 

“Down!” he yelled, yanking Hughes’ chair back and propelling him to the floor. Kate was standing there, confused, so Peter lunged across the table and shoved her back. “Get down!”

That glint had been a rifle sight. The realization hit at the same instant someone poked him hard in the right arm, above the elbow. He flinched away from the window. Kate shouted from the floor. There was blood on the table, on the WITSEC contract. Broken glass. His arm began to burn like hell. That hadn’t been a poke—it was a gunshot. 

He hunkered down, gripping his arm, wondering how bad it was. Hot blood between his fingers; iron and dirt in his nostrils. The fingers on his right hand were numb. But whoever was out there, they hadn’t been aiming for him.

“We have to get Kate out of here,” he shouted to Hughes.

 

*

 

“Going to say goodbye to the Suit?” asked Mozzie.

Neal didn’t answer. The web of loyalty, promises and nameless affection between him and Peter was too tangled—there was no way to say goodbye without getting emotional, and Neal couldn’t afford to lose focus now. He nearly had what he wanted, what he’d been promising himself since the day Kate started visiting him in prison, three years ago. 

Peter would have to take down Fowler on his own.

Mozzie moved to clasp Neal’s arm, and even that was almost too much. The weight of the friends and the life he was giving up threatened to choke him. Moz gave a slight smile and dropped his hand. “Send me a postcard.”

Then Mozzie’s phone rang, and he answered. “El? What’s wrong?” His gaze flicked to Neal. “He’s right here. Okay.” He put the phone onto speaker. “You’re on.”

Elizabeth’s voice wavered in the crisp fall air. “Neal? Peter’s been shot.”

“What?!” The world froze. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“He was meeting Kate. Someone shot at her; Peter got caught in the crossfire and took a hit in the arm. They’re both okay.”

Neal tried to process that, but all he could think was that he should have been there. Peter should have told him. “Where is she?”

There was a pause, long enough for Moz’s eyebrows to twitch. Then El said briskly, “The FBI’s taken Kate into protective custody. Jones and Cruz are with her.”

“Where are you?” asked Moz.

“Lennox Hill, but Peter’s being discharged now. We’ll be home in an hour.”

“We’ll see you there,” said Neal.

Moz hung up. “Why was the Suit meeting with Kate?”

“He was doing it for me. He was trying to save her.” It was the only answer that made sense. And now she was in custody, she might as well be wearing a tracking anklet herself. Would Neal have to rescue her from the good guys next?

“She’s also his only lead to get to Fowler,” Moz pointed out. “Well, I guess this puts a crimp in your flight plans.”

Neal had already done that math, but hearing it in so many words brought an unexpected flash of relief. He wasn’t leaving—not today. He didn’t have to say goodbye. 

He clapped Moz on the arm. “Come on. We need to strategize.”

 

*

 

The first person Neal saw when he and Moz let themselves into Peter and El’s place was an old familiar face. “Diana? What are you doing here?” 

Was Peter’s injury more serious than El had let on? But Diana didn’t look upset, and she was drinking from a half-empty beer bottle. She gestured with it. “I came back to help Peter investigate Mentor and take down Fowler.”

“What do you know?” Neal followed her into the living room, where Hughes was going through some papers on the couch. They looked a lot like the documents Fowler had given Neal, which raised the unwelcome question of how legally airtight Neal’s newfound freedom actually was. Fowler had cut corners before, and it certainly wasn’t standard operating procedure for OPR to cut deals in exchange for stolen goods.

“More Suits?” said Mozzie from the threshold. “This is my cue to leave.”

“I’ll tell Elizabeth you send your best,” said Neal in the second before he vanished from view.

“Hughes was at the meeting with Kate,” Diana explained into the silence that followed. “He got Peter to the hospital and called Jones and me for backup.”

“The shooter was aiming for Moreau,” said Hughes. “She’d just signed our deal—they must have wanted to stop her talking.”

Neal frowned. “If Fowler knows Kate agreed to talk, she’s still a target. We need to get her out of the city.”

“Without her, we’ll never find out who, if anyone, is controlling him,” said Diana. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not letting them walk—not after what they’ve done.”

She was right. Whoever was pulling the strings was dangerous and had to go down. Neal cast around for a plan that didn’t involve Kate. “You have papers—”

Hughes cut him off, tossing the documents onto the coffee table in front of him with an air of impatience. “The Mentor files from Fowler’s laptop. They might as well be science fiction. They don’t tell us anything about how Fowler manipulated your anklet or who he answers to.”

“But they do tell us about your deal with OPR,” said Diana. “New identities, disappearing act. No more anklet. That’s quite an incentive to stop Kate cooperating with us.”

Neal had bent to look at the papers in case he could see something there they’d missed, but at that, he straightened, appalled. “You think I’m responsible?”

“I think it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.” She sent him a hard stare. “Lucky for you, Peter ruled it out as a line of enquiry, said it was a waste of our time. He vouched for you, Neal.”

“Against my recommendation,” muttered Hughes.

Neal didn’t know what to tell them. If he explained about the music box, he’d be confessing to a crime, and he doubted either Diana or Hughes was in the mood to let it slide. All he could do was try to talk them around. He opened his mouth to start, but Diana looked past him to the stairs, and Neal instinctively turned to follow her gaze.

Elizabeth was descending, her face weary, hair hastily tied into a knot, and a crumpled bundle in her arms—one of Peter’s suit jackets, and a white shirt with a red stain that seared itself into Neal’s consciousness. “Hi, Neal.”

He went to her. “How is he? Can I see him?”

“Morphined up to the eyeballs and fast asleep,” she said, denying him permission. Her guarded expression reminded Neal of her hesitation on the phone: she’d told him Peter had been shot, and his first concern had been for Kate. Well, of course it had. What did she want from him?

“I’m sorry,” he said, anyway. “I won’t wake him.”

“Later.” Elizabeth’s eyes dropped to the bundle in her arms. “I need to get rid of these.”

“Let me.” Neal took them from her, though he didn’t want to touch them. Peter’s blood. It was because of him, in the end; someone had known Neal Caffrey was the only one who could get the damned music box, and that shadowy figure had manipulated everyone around Neal like chess pieces. And Neal had let it happen. 

He took the clothes to the utility room and stuffed them into a trash bag, tied it tight and put it outside the back door. Satchmo was lying on the patio and fixed him with a plaintive look, so Neal let him into the house on the grounds Elizabeth might find his presence comforting, but Neal didn’t follow him right away. He stood outside, looking at the bleak blue sky, thinking about Peter upstairs with a hole in his arm, Kate in a safe house. He didn’t know what to think, what to feel. He’d been so focused on saving Kate, on doing it alone and then disappearing. Making a new life. Together.

It was all he’d ever wanted.

He went back inside and washed his hands twice, then joined the others. “Let me see Kate. Alone. She’ll talk to me.”

From Diana and Hughes’ expressions, it was obvious they didn’t trust him.

Neal could still feel the blood on his hands. He turned to Elizabeth, as if she’d stepped into Peter’s shoes and held his authority by proxy. “Whoever did this, he won’t get away with it. I’ll help you get him.”

She studied him. He pleaded silently. She let out a breath. “Okay. Be careful.”

 

*

 

All the way to the safe house in Queens, Neal second-guessed what would happen next: this was a trap; Kate wouldn’t be there; the shooter was following them and would kill her before he could reach her; Peter’s injury was more serious than anyone was letting on, and that’s why Elizabeth hadn’t let Neal see him; Diana was actually driving him back to Rikers. It seemed impossible it could be as easy as walking into a room and taking Kate in his arms.

But it was. His heart lifted as soon as he laid eyes on her, and she dropped the magazine she was reading, scrambled off the bed and ran to him. For a moment, whatever else had happened was worth it. Her arms were tight around him, she was whole and safe, and they were together.

Neal pressed his face to her hair and hugged her so tight she protested, looking up at him with big, round eyes, as if she were as startled by their abrupt reunion as he was. Tense from head to toe.

He couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d been though. “You okay?”

“I will be.” She turned her head to glare at Diana and Jones. Lauren must be on a food run or something. 

“Give us a minute,” said Neal, making it a request even though he had Elizabeth’s permission and Hughes’ less enthusiastic acquiescence. 

Diana rolled her eyes, still suspicious, but took Jones outside. As soon as the door shut, Kate turned to him. “What’s the plan? Have you found a way out?”

Neal pulled her to sit on the edge of the bed with him, took her hands. “You’re safe here—just for a little while, until we take down Fowler and whoever’s behind him.”

“What? No!” She shook her head, appalled. “Neal, we have to run. We have to run _now_ , together. Cut that thing off your anklet and disappear.”

“I can’t,” Neal told her. “Not yet. Peter’s been shot—”

“I was there,” she interrupted. “It’s only his arm—he’ll live. Neal, trust me, if you go after this guy, it’s going to get much worse. Worse than you can imagine.”

“It won’t.” Neal looked into her eyes and willed her to understand. He had responsibilities, friends. He’d promised Elizabeth. “Peter and I—we’re good at this. We put Keller away, and Wilkes. We’ve taken down all kinds of bad guys, and we can get this guy too, whoever he is. Just tell me what you know.”

Kate tore her hands away, stood up and folded her arms. Frowned down at him. “No.”

It was her most mulish expression. Neal remembered it well—and fondly, because she rarely held out for long, not when he was around to convince her. “You made a deal,” he reminded her now. “Hughes said you signed the WITSEC agreement.”

She scowled. “I didn’t. They were screwing with me, and they’re screwing with you. Don’t you see, Neal? They’re doing exactly what Fowler was doing—using me to get to you and vice versa. And they’re liars.”

“Kate, you have to trust me.” Neal kept the impatience out of his voice, but it was gathering in his chest. He was trying to save her, to help, if only she’d let him. He shouldn’t have to beg. “Please.”

“Why? You didn’t trust me.” She tilted her chin defiantly. “You’re not trusting me now. Because I’m telling you, Neal, the only way we both get out of this alive is if we run. No FBI, no goodbyes.”

It was what he’d dreamed of. An escape route from the safe house was already unfolding in his mind. But he’d promised. “If we leave now, we’ll always be running.”

She took a step forward, reaching out to him. “Neal, that’s what we do. How did you think this was going to end?”

He looked away, unable to voice his plan: the picket fence, the PTA. If Mozzie had scoffed, Kate would laugh in his face. Once they would have shared that dream, but in light of her current urgency, it would sound hopelessly naïve. To be fair, she’d been through hell. He’d let her down. It was understandable her faith in him had been shaken. But he was here now; here, and she was still doubting. “You’ve changed.”

He regretted it as soon as he said it, the implied accusation, but she didn’t look surprised or disappointed. “So have you.”

That wasn’t right. He was the same man he’d always been, the man who loved her. They were meant to be together. He just needed some time first. He stalled. “Okay, we have to run. But we need IDs. I’m not running on names Fowler picked out. Mozzie can get us new passports, new papers; I’ll liquidate some assets—”

Kate went to a chair in the corner and pulled an envelope from the pocket of an overcoat. “I got us IDs. They’re clean. Fowler doesn’t know.”

“Did you get one for Moz?” asked Neal, grasping at straws. “We have to take him too.”

Kate slid the envelope back into her coat and shoved her hands into her pockets, staring at him for a long, disappointed minute. Then she sighed. “Twenty-four hours.”

“I need more than that.”

She stood firm. “Do what you need to do, say goodbye. In twenty-four hours, I’m leaving with or without you.”

“Why?” He felt like he was bargaining for his life—but she _was_ his life. He went and put his arms around her. “Look, you’ve been brave. You’ve been out there on your own, fighting. Let me take a turn. Let me do this. Then we can go wherever we want. We can even stay here, together.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her hands settling on his hips. “Everything I did was to protect you and keep you out of prison.”

“Including having me steal the music box?” The question had more of an edge than he intended. Her ultimatum, the ticking clock was bringing back echoes of Ryan Wilkes threatening his life, threatening an innocent girl. But it was an unfair association. “Sorry. I know that wasn’t you. I love you.”

“I love you too.” She sounded tired. “But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be rescued, Neal, and neither can I.”

He bent to capture her lips, and it was like an old recording, a memory. June and Byron, an echoing mansion and a closet full of clothes left behind. A lump rose in his throat. 

“We’ll save each other.” Only this morning, he would have believed it whole-heartedly. Now he wasn’t sure of anything. He focused on the thing he knew how to do. “What’s so special about the box?”

She pulled away, went to the window to look out. “Even if I knew—”

“You wouldn’t tell me.” He followed her. Night was falling, and it had started raining. A broken neon sign buzzed below them. It was a scene out of _Blade Runner_ —an ill omen, Mozzie would’ve said. “Okay, well, what can you tell me?”

Kate shook her head, her face bathed in green from the neon.

“Why didn’t you see me before? Why the ominous hints—‘he’s close to you, don’t trust anyone’—when you could have warned us about Fowler? You met with Peter, why not me? You could have talked to Moz if you didn’t trust anyone else.”

“I told you, it’s dangerous—” She was starting to sound like a broken record. 

“I don’t care!” Neal turned her toward him, willed her to have faith. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”

A muscle in her jaw flexed; her eyes were stern and unapologetic. “I didn’t want you getting too comfortable with them, okay?”

“Who?”

“The feds.”

All her strange, distant behavior clicked into place, but she was wrong, her outlook obscured by months of being controlled and terrorized. He gentled his voice and reasoned with her. “You know, they’re not all like Fowler. Peter’s a good guy. He’s stuck his neck out for me more than once. We—”

“He put you in prison, Neal.” Kate’s expression was incredulous, to match her tone. “He has you on a leash.”

Neal wanted to argue, to say the anklet had been his idea. Peter had taken a gamble on him, had turned a blind eye to any number of extracurricular activities. He’d cleared Neal’s name after the pink diamond affair, helped him take down Keller. But Kate was in no mood to listen, so he bit off the spiel and stepped back instead. Pulled up his pant leg to show off his bare ankle.

Her eyes widened, and she grabbed his arm. “Neal, we have to run now!”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter was on the couch watching commercials during the half-time break of a Knicks game when Diana called to say Neal had left the safe house under his own steam. “Thanks, Di.”

“You okay, boss?”

“I’m fine. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.” Peter hung up, not knowing whether he should expect Neal to turn up on their doorstep, or if his departure heralded the start of another elaborate Caffrey escape plan, but when he raised it with El, she refused to let him go out and track Neal down. 

“Hon, you were shot today!” she said, hands on her hips. “You’re doped up on painkillers, and your arm’s in a sling. You’re not leaving this house.”

“I’m fine.” His arm was sore, but in a distant way, and the sling was mostly for show. Whatever the doctor had muttered about possible nerve damage had clearly been exaggerated: Peter could already feel his fingers again. But El was determined, so he struggled off the couch and gave her a one-armed hug, and the next thing he knew, there was a minor commotion outside.

“I’ll go,” said El. “Reese put a detail on the house.”

“That wasn’t necessary.” Peter didn’t need coddling; he needed to catch whoever was behind this and lock them up. And he needed to see Neal.

El rolled her eyes and went outside, and a few moments later, reappeared with Neal in tow, his hair tousled, expression blank—until he saw Peter. Then he smiled, a real genuine smile. “Peter, should you be up?”

“I’m fine.” Peter dropped back onto the couch and turned off the TV, covering for the sensation that his world was turning right-side up. Neal wasn’t on a plane halfway to Europe or Australia. Not yet, anyway. “Did Kate give you anything on our mystery bad guy?”

“Not much.” Neal took off his coat and went to hang it over the bannister. When he came back, he took in both of their expressions. “She’s trying to protect me.”

“Well, she’s protecting whoever shot Peter too,” said El. “I’m just saying.”

Peter had to be fair. “Not out of loyalty. They were aiming for her.”

“That’s right.” Neal rewarded him with a grateful look.

El touched Neal’s shoulder, her fingers lingering—Neal probably didn’t notice, but Peter did, and it cut him to the quick. The idea of El longing and being frustrated was an anathema, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t serve Neal up to her on a platter, however much he might want to.

El’s hand fell away, along with any trace of wistfulness. “I’ll put some coffee on,” she told Neal. “Have you eaten? There are leftovers.”

She’d always been stronger than Peter. When she disappeared into the kitchen, Neal sat in the armchair. “This is because of me.”

“It’s just a scratch.” Peter jerked his head at the flowers on the mantelpiece. “You sent those before you heard. Were you planning on saying goodbye?”

Neal twisted his head away, caught out. Then he looked at Peter, earnest, concerned. The perfect con, but Peter could see past that, and under the skin, Neal was vibrating fit to fly apart. There was none of that in his voice though: he really did believe what he was saying. “It’s better this way for everyone. Once I’m gone, it’s over—no more Mentor, no more OPR riding you. You can go back to your life, and I—” He gave a small shrug. “I get to have one of my own.”

“You already have a life,” said Peter. “Right here. You have people who care about you.”

El was standing in the doorway, listening while she waited for the coffee to brew, but she must have seen something in Peter’s face, because she came to sit beside him, right up against him, giving him silent permission to speak. Peter took it in both hands. “You know, we talked about your right to make a choice.”

Neal nodded, tense.

“Well, you can only make a real choice if you know all your options.” Peter met Neal’s gaze and let his feelings show, the real deep true ones he’d been sitting on ever since that evening with El. 

Neal frowned. “What are you saying?”

Peter took a deep breath. “You can stay and keep working at the Bureau. With me. Doing good work. Or—”

“Peter, we talked about this,” Neal interrupted. “It’s not what I want.”

“Or you can stay here with El and me.” His nerve wavered, and he let his gaze fall, grateful when El took his hand in both of hers, squeezing tight. “I know, I don’t even know if you’re attracted to men, let alone me. I just—” Embarrassment was rising, thick and swampy, in response to Neal’s silence, but Peter made himself finish. “I think before you disappear or do something stupid, you should know that’s a possibility.”

There was a pause. Peter had convinced himself over the last few weeks that there was a reasonable chance Neal cared like they did, or at least that he must be aware of how they felt, world class con artist that he was, but the silence dragged on, and the color of the carpet was starting to sear itself into Peter’s eyeballs. He risked a glance at Neal—

—whose mouth was open, eyes wide with shock. Who raised his eyebrows at El. “Is this the morphine talking?”

“If that’s what you want to believe.” Her answering smile was a façade, devoid of humor. “It probably helped get the words out, anyway.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Neal licked his lips, surprise reforming into regret before their eyes.

And that was it. Any hopes Peter might have entertained plummeted into the depths of his belly; he left them there, a dead weight, and automatically began to pull himself together. “You don’t have to let us down easy.” 

“It’s not that,” said Neal. “Kate and I—I can’t walk away from her.”

Which didn’t start to answer the questions: whether Neal wanted them, whether under different circumstances, or if Peter had spoken up sooner, or waited… But wondering was futile, and Peter would rather have taken another bullet than asked outright. He’d risked enough today, humiliated himself above and beyond.

“I’m sorry.” Neal ran his hands through his hair, his concern obvious. At least he wasn’t laughing in their faces, or sneering, or calling Peter names. That would be worse—probably.

El stood up, rubbing her hands on her jeans, looking as if she were about to head back to the kitchen, but she didn’t move. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s not like you and Kate were a secret.”

Neal looked between them. “How long?”

Peter refused to wallow. Neal had said no; there was no point. “It doesn’t matter. So, when are the two of you skipping town?”

Neal sat back, almost a controlled flinch, but he didn’t deny it. “I’m going to get you something on Fowler first. On whoever’s behind him. Kate knows something, I just have to convince her to talk.”

“Neal.” Peter used his FBI agent voice, compelling the truth out of him.

“Twenty-four hours. Twenty-two and a half.” Neal checked his watch, then tugged his sleeve back down and stared at his hands for a minute. Looked up, troubled. “Peter, you’re the only one who believes in me.”

“The only two,” said El. Her conviction tore at Peter’s self-control.

Neal stood up, his jaw set. “Whoever shot you, I promise we’ll get him.”

As if that mattered. As if Peter could think about that, when Neal had admitted he was planning to vanish from their lives. The prospect of losing him—as a partner, as a friend—was more than Peter could bear. He shook his head, speechless. 

It fell to El to recite the usual prohibitions. “Don’t do anything stupid. Getting yourself hurt too won’t help anyone. Think of Kate.”

 

*

 

Neal had said no.

Neal had said no, Peter was quietly devastated, and El wasn’t sure which of them was breaking her heart more, but in the end it was no one’s fault. All there was to do was accept and move on. She and Peter had each other, and Peter was in one piece. His natural stoicism would no doubt kick in once he’d eased back on the heavy duty painkillers. And she could fake it well enough to avoid causing him further pain.

“I should go,” said Neal, interrupting her thoughts. 

He’d only just arrived, but Peter didn’t say anything, so El let it slide. “I’ll see you out.”

A look passed between Peter and Neal—her boys, if things had been different—and it was weighted with so much feeling it was hard to believe Neal really had turned them down. But denial was a fool’s game. She gripped her hands together and played the good hostess, walking Neal out to the front stoop. 

“The flowers are beautiful.”

“They’re nothing,” said Neal, absently. Then he shook himself and focused on her. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry about—”

He was going to apologize again. She cut him off. “Don’t feel bad, Neal. Really. One of the reasons Peter was trying to help Kate was so you could get your happy ending. I doubt we’d have said anything if weren’t for the shooting and Peter’s painkillers.”

And the flowers. The flowers had given her a glimmer of confidence. But Neal had just said they were nothing, so that was willful self-delusion.

Neal frowned, and El couldn’t help herself. She threw her arms around him, closed her eyes and felt him hug her back for the first and only time. So different from Peter, so precious. It was a stolen moment, not fair to any of them, and in full view of the protection detail, but she couldn’t let him walk out of their lives without taking this one small thing for herself. 

“We just want you to be happy, okay? You deserve that,” she said, letting him go. Wishing she didn’t have to let go, ever. She stepped back, met his eye. 

He swallowed audibly. “You too. More than anything.” 

And then he left, and El went back inside to her husband.

 

*

 

Neal had two weak leads and twenty-two hours. This was no time to get distracted, no time to dwell on Peter and Elizabeth’s offer and how wrecked they’d seemed by his reaction. They were fine—they had each other, they didn’t need him.

He called Moz. “I could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

“Where and when?”

They met at the airstrip Fowler had listed as a rendezvous for Neal. He was already hours later than the agreed time, and the place was deserted, the office closed up, but someone had arranged for him to meet Kate here. Maybe someone above Fowler. Maybe Neal could find out who.

Mozzie arrived in an ancient Honda Civic, and when he saw Neal, he took off his glasses, his eyes widening. “What happened? Is the Suit really all right?”

The jolt of guilt at Peter’s nickname was mere reflex. Moz couldn’t know about Peter and Elizabeth’s feelings. “He’ll be fine. Why?”

“No reason.” Mozzie blinked, then looked around. “Where’s Kate?”

“Safe house.” Neal didn’t want to talk. “We need to break into the office.” He could have done it himself, but it was a convenient change of subject, and anyway, Mozzie had always been better with low-end alarm systems. 

When they were inside, Moz gazed greedily at the stacks of papers, charts and log books, and the PC that looked like a relic from the ‘90s. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Receipts, flight manifest, any information on a flight booked to leave here at two-thirty this afternoon.” Neal took the cotton gloves Moz held out, put them on and started rifling through the papers.

“Your flight?”

“It was supposed to be.” Through the internal window to the hangar, an executive jet was faintly visible in the dark. Was that the plane that had been destined to carry him and Kate into the sunset? Could there be clues on board? He unlocked the door and groped for a light switch. 

There were two other, smaller planes stored in the hangar, but this was the only one that had been outside today. There were raindrops on the windows. He pushed a wheeled block up to the door of the cabin, climbed it and was about to let himself inside when Mozzie called from the office.

“Neal, I think I’ve got something!”

Neal hesitated, wanting to investigate the plane anyway, if only to make the escape plan more tangible in his own mind, but it was unlikely there’d be anything useful on board, and the clock was ticking.

He jumped down and ran back to the office. “What have you got?”

“Booking number, name, bank account.” Mozzie pointed to a ledger he’d propped open on the pulled-out drawer of a filing cabinet. “The name’s probably an alias, but the account must be legit.”

“That’s great, Moz.” Neal strode over and photographed the page in question with his phone, then sent it through to Peter with a text: _Get Diana to run this. Could be a lead._

He didn’t sign the text or add anything personal. The previously easy relationship between them was uncertain now, mired with questions and guilt. _I don’t know even know if you’re attracted to men,_ Peter had said, as if the fact that _he_ was should be unremarkable, but Neal had never dreamed. Did that mean Peter had been with guys before? And what about Elizabeth? What had they really been proposing?

How long?

No. There was no time. He couldn’t. Kate.

Moz dropped the ledger back into its hanging file and shut the cabinet drawer. “Where to next?”

“A crime scene.” Neal looked him up and down. “You’ll need to change.”

 

*

 

The site of the shooting was the one piece of intel Kate had been willing to share, on the grounds that Neal could find it out from the FBI anyway. “Who else knew you were meeting there?” Neal asked her.

“Whoever your precious Burke told. I sure as hell didn’t talk. And no, I wasn’t followed.” Kate had been spiky by this stage, and her defiance silenced Neal more than anything else. They were supposed to be on the same side.

Now, standing in the narrow street surrounded by dilapidated commercial buildings, with Mozzie at his side, he was determined to have faith. If he caught the man behind Fowler and brought him to justice, they wouldn’t have to run. Neal could have this life _and_ Kate. He’d always been a lucky sonofabitch; why shouldn’t everything work out this time too?

The sniper’s nest wasn’t hard to spot: a broken window, and the only light on in the whole building. The FBI forensics techs must still be going over the scene. 

“You up for this?” Neal raised his eyebrows at Moz.

Moz smoothed the wide lapels of his suit jacket and straightened his shoulders. “Lead the way.”

They passed two forensics techs on the stairs. Neal nodded and kept his expression neutral and bored, and the guys barely spared them a glance. There was a cop on the door, but Neal’s consultant’s badge got them past, and then they were in an empty room with fingerprint dust on the windowsill.

It was immediately obvious there was nothing to find, but this was the only other lead Neal had, so when Mozzie said doubtfully, “I don’t know, man. This might be a dead end,” Neal moved forward, as if he could materialize evidence through sheer willpower.

“Check everything,” he said.

For a moment, Moz stood motionless, but then he nodded and opened his bag of tricks: scanners, UV light, dusting powder, the works.

Ten minutes later, even Neal was ready to call it. The sniper had been a professional: no cigarette ash, no junk food wrappers, no shell casings. If he’d left anything, it had been bagged by Forensics. And being here, in a room where someone had set up a rifle and taken aim at Kate, had shot Peter, could have killed either or both of them—it was making Neal’s skin crawl. 

He forced himself to go over and look out. Tried to concentrate. At the edge of his mind, Peter and Elizabeth hovered like ghosts. How much must they want him, if they were prepared to admit it to each other—and to admit it to him. Well, damn them for putting him in the position of having to turn them down! They knew he loved Kate. They _knew_ that. Damn Elizabeth’s brave smile, and Peter’s silent disappointment. He didn’t need their blessing.

When the door opened, Moz was sweeping the place for bugs, probably to fill in time. Neal stepped sideways to shield him from view, but it was only Diana and Jones. They came in, guns drawn.

Diana scowled when she saw him and holstered her weapon. “Caffrey, what the hell?” 

“What are you doing here?” asked Neal, drawing their attention while Mozzie packed up, quickly and quietly. Jones probably wouldn’t book them for unauthorized access of a crime scene, but Neal wasn’t so sure about Diana, and the last thing he wanted right now was to have to beg Peter for lenience. 

“We told NYPD if there were any unscheduled arrivals, including FBI, we wanted to hear about it,” said Jones. “Your turn.”

Neal shrugged. “Peter calls me in to crime scenes all the time. Fresh pair of eyes, right?”

“That’s for art crimes,” said Jones. “What do you know about snipers?”

Diana happened to glance around and see Moz sneaking out the door, but she just rolled her eyes and let him leave. “Forensics has already combed this place from top to bottom,” she told Neal. “They’re professionals—if there was anything to get, they got it.”

“I had to do something.” Neal’s frustration bled through, despite himself.

Jones put his hands on his hips. “If you want to make yourself useful, get Moreau talking.”

Neal nodded, unwilling to admit how little influence he had in that arena. If anyone could convince Kate they were the good guys, it should be Neal, but— “Wait,” he said, pointing at Jones. “If you’re here, who’s guarding Kate?”

“Lauren’s with her,” said Jones. “I think they’re playing Scrabble.” His phone rang, and he answered it. “What? Dammit.” He listened a moment longer, and whatever he heard made him shake his head in exasperation. “Okay, we’re on our way.” He hung up and narrowed his eyes at Neal. “Your girlfriend’s gone.”

Neal went cold. “They took her.”

They’d already tried to kill her once; of course they wouldn’t just give up. And Fowler would have access to safe house information. But Jones was shaking her head. “She left a note: ‘I can’t stay here. Tell Neal I’ll be in touch.’”

“Promise me you didn’t plan this, drawing us here so she could sneak away.” Diana took a step forward, her hand going to the butt of her gun.

“I didn’t, all right? I want her safe under your protection as much as you do.” Neal raked his fingers through his hair, worried. Where was she? Where would she go? He looked out the window, dark buildings, a taxi passing. She could be anywhere. 

He’d spent all last night scouring the city for Alex and the music box. He was in no state to stay up looking for Kate, not when he didn’t have a clue where to start. He was going to have to trust her.

Jones and Diana were conferring in low voices. Diana turned to Neal. “Come on, Caffrey. I’m driving you home.”

He was a free man, and the FBI couldn’t tell him where to go or what to do, but he didn’t have it in him to argue.

 

*

 

“That account number you sent Peter,” said Diana, once they were in the car and heading north to June’s. 

Neal was almost too tired to care. But only almost. “What about it? You found something?”

“Links back to a shell corporation in the Caymans. It’s a dead end.” She sent him a sideways look.

“Dammit.” Neal sighed and slumped in the passenger seat. “Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Nothing touches him, no loose ends. He’s got OPR doing his dirty work, and he’s been controlling Kate—”

“It’s early days. We’ll get him.” Diana sounded grimly determined. “He shot Peter.”

He’d been aiming for Kate. Neal nearly pointed that out, but it was late, and he didn’t want to antagonize his ride home. And Diana was right—it was Peter who’d taken the bullet. Peter whose shirt had been covered in blood. Neal stared out the side window and watched the city flow past. “Can I ask you a stupid question?”

Diana snorted. “What?”

“How did you know you were gay?” Neal let his eyes lose focus, turning the streets into a dark blur streaked with light and waiting to see if he’d given too much away, but when she spoke she sounded contemplative, as if she were taking the question at face value.

“I guess when I realized there’s a difference between idolizing the idea of a relationship and actually wanting to be in it.” She pulled up outside June’s. “Get some sleep, Caffrey. We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

It was the closest to _goodnight_ he could expect from her. “Yeah.”

He climbed out of the car and let himself into the house. The stairs might as well have been Everest, but he bullied himself up them, thinking about her answer. He’d been jealous of Peter and Elizabeth since he’d been released from prison, and all this time he’d assumed it was because he wanted what they had, but with Kate. He’d lain awake imagining it—he and Kate working good jobs, meeting for lunch sometimes, coming home to each other at the end of the day. A good, ordinary life. Maybe children. And always with the Burkes’ intimacy, their easy affection and humor. 

But what if that wasn’t what Kate wanted? What if she wanted to go back to the life, its highs and lows, dangers and uncertainty? Its never-ending drive to risk more for greater rewards, and always being on the run.

And what if, after all this time, he wanted what Peter and Elizabeth had more than he wanted Kate? What if he really wanted it with them?

 

*

 

It was nearly midnight, and his room was quiet. June or Mozzie must have been in, because a lamp was on, but the couch was empty. If Mozzie was here, he was sleeping in one of June’s other guest rooms. 

Neal poured himself a glass of water, glanced in the fridge and picked at some cold chicken from two nights ago. He should eat, but he really just wanted to sleep. No doubt June’s cook could be prevailed upon to provide a hearty breakfast when he woke up.

He turned toward the bed and stopped in his tracks. Someone was asleep there, under the covers, long dark hair spread across the pillow, and for a heart-stopping moment he was sure it was Elizabeth and he didn’t know what to do. 

Logic quickly swept the misapprehension aside, leaving only a secret silver tidemark of guilt. “Kate.” He went and sat beside her, clasped her thin shoulder through her t-shirt. “Kate. How did you get here?”

She rolled toward him, blinking. “June let me in. Hi, baby, you’re home.”

It was so close to his fantasy, it dried up all his doubts and questions. He stripped off his clothes, casting them to the floor, and slid in beside her, pulling her into his arms. “Are you okay? What happened?”

She nuzzled his neck sleepily. “I’m taking the feds out of the equation. You are I are both free now—no Fowler, no Burke. We can choose on our own terms.”

He buried his face in her hair. “Kate, god, I missed you so much.”

“I know. Me too.” She ran her hands up his back, pulling him closer, an echo of long, long ago. They should talk. Neal still needed to get a lead on the man behind Fowler. But he couldn’t care about anything beyond the reality of Kate in his arms, the two of them finally alone. She raised her face, that smile, those wide blue eyes, her dark charcoal lashes, and he skimmed the t-shirt up over her head and kissed her, murmuring her name, loving her completely as she twined around him like a vine. For a long time, they just clung to each other, kissing, breathing each other in, letting the truth of the moment seep into their bones. Then they started moving—Kate guided him inside her, and it was like a dream, beautiful, sweet and everything he’d been yearning for.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thanks, Jones. Let me know if you hear anything.” Peter disconnected the call and turned to find El standing at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at him. 

“Hon, you need to rest.”

“I’m fine.” Peter had spent half the afternoon asleep, and he couldn’t relax as long as Neal was out there without backup, getting into God only knew what kind of trouble. Making bad life choices—not that Peter was in any position to judge. He pushed that thought aside, and all that came with it. “Kate’s gone.”

“But—she was in a safe house.” El frowned.

Peter snuck his arm back into its sling, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and turned off the downstairs lights, leaving only the soft glow from the landing upstairs. “She left a note and ran. Jones is pretty sure there wasn’t any foul play.”

“What about Neal? Is he okay?”

Peter went to her, gripped her shoulder. “Diana drove him home. There’s something else: Neal was investigating the sniper’s nest.”

“What does that mean?” El covered his hand with her both of her own. 

“It means he’s clutching at straws. He doesn’t have any solid leads. And now Kate’s in the wind, he’s either been betrayed by the one person he pinned his hopes on, or he’s about to run off with her. Or both.” Peter gritted his teeth for a moment. “Dammit, I wish he was in the anklet. At least I’d know where he was.”

“I still don’t get it—why would Kate run? If the bad guys are taking pot shots at her, isn’t she safer under FBI protection?”

“My guess? She got what she wanted—the music box—and she doesn’t need Neal anymore, or any of us. If she can convince her accomplices she didn’t flip on them, they’ll probably make a deal.” Peter sighed. “I hope he’s not taking it too hard.” Under different circumstances, he’d call or even go over to make sure, but after this afternoon, he couldn’t be sure of his welcome. Anyway, it was late, nearly midnight.

They could all use a good night’s sleep and hope that the morning brought clearer heads and a fresh perspective. Assuming Neal was still in New York in the morning.

El chewed her lip. “You know, hon, I’m not so sure Kate was working with Fowler of her own free will. I know it looks bad, but why would she meet with you and Hughes if she’s on the other side? It doesn’t make sense.”

“To allay suspicion.” Peter rubbed his face and moved forward, shepherding El up the stairs. “I don’t know, I accused Neal of not seeing her for who she really is, but when it comes down to it, I’m not exactly objective either.”

“Jealous.” They reached the landing, and El threw a rueful smile over her shoulder. “Me too. They’ve got a lot of history. Maybe they really do belong together.”

“I hope so, for his sake.” The words stuck in Peter’s throat, but he made himself mean them, as well as he could. 

El must have sensed his determination. Her smile turned sympathetic, and she put her arms around him. “In the meantime, Neal’s a free man. I guess we’re going to have to let him go and see what happens.”

Peter gazed down into her beautiful, brave face, free of recriminations or resentment. He had no right to feel aggrieved. Sure, Neal’s rejection was disappointing, and the probability of losing him altogether was more than he could fathom, but they were clean wounds, and the fact he could share his feelings with El, that they were in this together, was an incredible blessing. “I love you.”

“I know.” She reached up and kissed him. “And we’ll get through this. ‘That which does not kill you…’ But for now, come to bed, or I’ll have to club you over the head and drag you there myself.”

“Well, when you put it like that.” He obediently followed her to the bedroom, expecting to lie awake all night, dwelling on his failures, but he hadn’t taken into account either the rigors of the day or the painkillers. He was out almost before his head hit the pillow.

 

*

 

It was raining when Neal woke up, and Kate was in his bed, propped on one elbow, watching him. He reached up to smooth the small crease between her eyebrows, and she grinned and leaned in to kiss him. She tasted of toothpaste.

“Cheat,” he said, smiling. “How long have you been awake? What time is it?”

“An hour. There was thunder.”

She’d always been a deep sleeper, next to impossible to rouse. Apparently that had changed. The clock on the nightstand said seven-thirty. He slid his hand up the outside of her thigh. “Thunder, hm?”

“And people downstairs.”

“That’s just June’s staff.”

“You feel safe here.” It was a neutral observation, but it felt like criticism.

“Kate—”

“So, seven-thirty. You have ten hours left—what are you going to do? We could have a picnic in Central Park. Or do you have to do the rounds of all your pet federal agents and take them gift baskets?”

Neal tensed, his morning laziness replaced with annoyance. “We’re still doing that? You’re seriously putting me on a clock.”

She pressed up against him, kissed his shoulder. “Nothing’s changed since yesterday, baby. We’re not safe here.”

“That’s why we need to find this guy, put him behind bars.” They were talking around in circles, and she wasn’t listening. He pushed her away. “Come on, Kate. Catching bad guys is like a con, only with FBI backup. It’s actually kind of fun. Even Mozzie’s taken a—”

Kate rolled her eyes and interrupted. “You want to know the real reason I haven’t told you anything? Because it’s someone you know, and I knew as soon as you found out, you wouldn’t let it go and come away with me.”

“You said it was because he’s dangerous.” Had Peter been right—had she been lying to him all this time? Playing him?

“He’s more ruthless than you can imagine,” said Kate, “but when has danger ever stopped you?” She sighed and drew a whisper-light line down his nose to the corner of his lips, her own mouth turning down. “I want you with me, Neal. Just the two of us, no one else. I know it’s not reasonable, it’s not fair, but for the last six months, you’ve been all I had.”

“Which is why we need to—”

Kate talked right over him. “I haven’t had friends—haven’t even had Mozzie. You’re what kept me going. And I thought I was everything to you too, but—that’s not true anymore.”

“Kate.” He didn’t know what to say, especially with thoughts of Peter and Elizabeth in the back of his mind. But that wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t asked for that. “You’re everything. You’re ninety-nine percent of everything.”

“I said I was unreasonable. I want that last one percent.” She closed her eyes, her jaw flexing, and took an unsteady breath. “You know, I hate him. I hate what he stole from us.” 

Neal gathered her stiff body close. “So let me take him down. Then it will all be over.”

She hammered his chest with her fist, just once, and her protest was as bright and hard as diamonds. “Neal!”

“Come on, stop,” he told her. He kissed her ear. “I just got you back. I don't want to fight.”

“You’re never going to give up, are you?”

“I made a promise to someone.” This wasn’t the time to mention Peter by name. Neal was already asking more than Kate wanted to give, and it was obvious that if she knew he’d admitted to Peter they were leaving town, she’d consider it a betrayal. But after all Peter had done for him, Neal had to keep his word. To be the guy Peter believed in.

Kate groaned in frustration, then shook her head, evidently accepting the inevitable. “His yacht is _Il Dragón del Mar_. It’s still in the marina.”

“Thank you.” Neal kissed her, but she pulled away and sat up, grabbing her bra from the floor. He tried to catch her arm. “What are you doing? Come here.”

She shook him off and quickly put on the rest of her clothes. He lay, watching, concerned but not alarmed. She was mad because he’d wormed the intel out of her, but they’d only just found each other again, they were meant to be together. She wouldn’t leave.

But when she’d zipped her boots and finger-combed her hair, she stood and looked down at him. “Be careful, Neal. He’s seen you coming before.” Then she grabbed a bag from the floor by the nightstand and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

She was serious. She was actually walking out of his life again. After everything. He sprang up, naked and belatedly desperate. “No. Don’t go.”

“I’ll always love you. Probably too much.”

“Kate, please!”

She paused by the door. “Goodbye, Neal. Come and find me when you’re done here—if you still want to.”

 

*

 

El came downstairs after her morning shower to find her house transformed into an FBI control center. She’d been expecting activity from the voices and occasional thumps, but this was something else altogether. Peter was on the couch, on his laptop, his sling hanging slack and useless around his neck; Diana was in the dining room, on the phone and searching through a stack of files on the table; and Clinton was plugging a laptop into the TV, as if he were planning a presentation, with Satchmo trying to lend a helping paw. The atmosphere was bustling and collegial, as if this were FBI summer camp. 

“I figured, since we’re taking over your home, we should bring breakfast,” said Clinton, indicating a big box of pastries on the armchair.

“That’s sweet of you. I’ll get plates.” She moved the box to the far end of the dining table, which was miraculously free of FBI files, then looked around. “No Neal?”

“He’s on his way.” Diana pocketed her phone and went to read over Peter’s shoulder. “Is that the ballistics report? Let me guess, no matches on the bullet.”

“Not yet. Lauren’s still running it through the inter-agency database.” Peter caught sight of El and hastily pushed his laptop at Diana so he could shove his arm into his sling. He came over and followed El into the kitchen, where she started loading a tray with silverware and plates, mentally debating whether to have one big platter of pastries or two smaller ones. Coffee was already brewing.

“Sorry about all this, hon,” said Peter. “Since I’m suspended, we can’t work from the office, and besides, we don’t know who else beyond Fowler’s people is compromised.”

El paused in her organizing and went to kiss him, deciding then and there to roll with it. If Peter needed to work—to catch the shooter, and to take his mind off Neal’s rejection—at least he was doing it where she could keep an eye on him. “Hon, it’s fine. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?”

“Lauren and Hughes are covering for us at the Bureau, and Neal will be here any minute—” Peter trailed off, his ears turning pink.

El put down the stack of plates she was holding and gave him a sideways hug, being careful of his arm even if he wasn’t. “We’ll be okay.”

Neal wouldn’t hold it against Peter that he’d revealed the truth of their feelings—and it if did, El would kick his ass.

“Yeah,” said Peter. He shook himself and really looked at her. “Are you okay?”

“Getting there.” She put on a brave face, knowing it wouldn’t fool him for a second, and he gave her a rueful smile, squeezed her shoulder and went back to the fray. All they could do was push on and get through it. That would be easier once they’d seen Neal and could be sure everything was back to normal.

Five minutes later, she put the finishing touches on the breakfast spread and stuck her head into the living room. “Breakfast’s ready.” 

Neal was standing by the bookcase, taking off his gloves. His pants were damp from the knee down where his umbrella hadn’t protected him, and he was looking around with a shuttered expression, as if he’d arrived in an alien land and was still determining whether the natives were hostile. 

El couldn’t deny her mixed feelings at seeing him—relief that he was still in town, the ever-present thrum of attraction, a deep ache of regret, and of course, concern for Peter. She tamped all that down and summoned a neutral, welcoming smile. “Hey, Neal. Bear claw?”

“No, thanks.” His voice was flat, and his gaze flicked away, focusing instead on Clinton and Diana. Cutting Peter out too. “I have a lead,” he announced.

El exchanged a glance with Peter. Neal was mad at them, and if he had new intel, he must have talked to Kate. Might she have said something about them, about Peter? What was there to say? Peter shrugged at her and asked, on behalf of the group, “What kind of lead?”

“The man we’re after, the man behind Fowler.” Neal put his gloves on the bookcase behind him and slid his hands into his pockets. “He’s at the West 79th Street Boat Basin. His yacht’s called _Il Dragón del Mar_.”

“ _Il Dragón del Mar_ ,” echoed Diana, typing it into Peter’s laptop.

“But who is he?” asked Clinton.

“I don’t know yet,” said Neal. “But I’ve got someone scouting around there now, trying to get a visual.”

“He means Mozzie,” Peter explained to Diana, as an aside. Neal scowled, and Peter ignored him pointedly. “We need to get an agent down there ASAP.”

“We don’t have anything on this guy,” said Diana. “Nothing that’ll stick.”

Peter waved that aside. “We’ll worry about that when we’ve IDed him.”

Clinton stood, ready for action, but Neal held up a hand to stop him. 

“Slow down. If he gets the slightest hint we’re onto him, he’ll disappear and we’ll never know.” He said it as if it were the final word on the matter, perhaps reminding Peter he couldn’t set the rules for all of them; Neal wasn’t in the anklet anymore, nor was he one of Peter’s staff. Maybe that was what the tension was about—a realigning of power dynamics.

“Well, does anyone want any breakfast while we’re waiting for news from Moz?” asked El, hoping good food and coffee would smooth things over, or at least improve Neal’s mood.

“Sounds great to me.” Diana set the laptop on the coffee table and went into the dining room, followed by Clinton. Neal might as well have been made of stone. El and Peter exchanged another complicated glance, and then Peter went through and said something about Danishes that made Diana and Clinton laugh. 

It didn’t give El and Neal a lot of privacy, but it was something. She moved closer, lowered her voice. “Neal, where’s Kate?”

“She left me.” 

His face was a mask, and she couldn’t begin to guess what he was going through, losing Kate after searching for her for so long. And there was nothing she could do to make it better. “Oh, babe, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Stupid question.”

She rubbed his arm, and his gaze flew to meet hers, letting her see him properly—an ice storm of loss and confusion. His world was obviously crumbling. It was a wonder he was keeping it together at all.

“Elizabeth,” he breathed, locked onto her, moving closer, and for a second she was the pinpoint focus of his attention, his pain. She wished with all her heart there was more she could do to provide comfort, but if she held him now while they were both this raw, she was going to cry and she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop. She already cared too much; she had to keep some distance for her own sanity, for Peter’s sake too. 

She gave his arm one last pat and tried to smile. “It’ll get better, I promise. You just have to give it time.” It was the same promise she’d made Peter that morning. The same promise she’d given herself. She hoped to God she was right for all of them. “In the meantime, do you think you could do me a favor and cut Peter some slack?”

His guard snapped back into place, and he stepped away, bumping into the bookcase. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do,” said El. “You know this isn’t fair. He didn’t do anything wrong, but you’re pushing him away.”

Neal’s mouth tightened into a straight line. “Didn’t do anything wrong—maybe. He still ruined everything.”

 

*

 

There’d been no communication from Mozzie by the time all the pastries were consumed, and despite El’s having had words with him, Neal was still standing on the sidelines in stony silence. Peter’s senses might have been dulled by painkillers, but it didn’t take a genius to see Neal wasn’t himself. And maybe for someone so compulsively charming, there was a twisted compliment in his willingness to act out, a measure of trust Neal extended to only a handful of people, but that didn’t stop his anger from hitting home on a fundamental level, below logic. 

Peter made a show of checking his watch. “No word from Mozzie. I’m calling it. Going up to the marina.”

“Your arm’s in a sling, and you’re on opiates,” El pointed out, frowning. “How are you going to defend yourself?”

“It’s just recon, hon. And Neal can drive me—I’m sure he’s concerned about Mozzie too.” Peter pointed to Diana and Jones. “You two keep digging. See if you can find anything on the yacht, and look into Fowler’s financials. Oh, and take another pass through the Mentor files—there’s got to be something there we can use.” Peter looked at Neal. “Okay?”

Neal’s jaw clenched, but he swiped his gloves from the bookcase and went for his coat without objecting. 

Peter kissed El on the forehead. “We’ll be back before you know it, promise.”

The rain had eased back to a few spots here and there, and it looked like the clouds might thin out. Peter stared at the East River as they crossed the bridge, debating whether to say anything. Neal was vibrating like a tuning fork in the driver’s seat.

Despite himself, Peter let out an impatient sigh. Neal didn’t so much as glance over in query; he seemed to be slipping further away with each passing second. Peter had to reach out, however awkward he felt about raising the subject again. “Would you relax?” he said gruffly. “What I said yesterday was a mistake, all right? I’m sorry I opened my mouth. Now forget it and move on.”

There was a pause. They turned up West Street. “How long?”

He’d asked that yesterday too. Peter didn’t know why it mattered. Was Neal doubting their partnership? Did he think Peter had got him out of prison to proposition him? He should know better, but Peter could at least put his mind at rest on that score. “I don’t know, a couple of months. Since the Howser Clinic.”

Neal’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t relent. They pulled up at West 79th, and he put the Taurus in park and turned to Peter, his eyes snapping. “Hate to break it to you, Peter, but you’re not my type. I like art and culture and beautiful things; you're into sports and cheap beer and sweating all over the couch. If I were going to fall for a man, it wouldn't be you. So, yeah—consider it forgotten.”

He got out, slammed the car door and stalked away with the wind billowing his coat, leaving Peter sucker-punched and reeling. After the last twenty-four hours, the rejection wasn’t a surprise, but it wasn’t like Neal to be cruel. Kate’s leaving had obviously knocked him for a loop, and he was lashing out, trying to provoke a fight. Peter understood the impulse only too well, but dammit, he was going to keep himself in check or die trying. 

If they both lost their tempers, they’d say things there’d be no coming back from, and whatever Neal believed right now, they were friends. Peter was going to do everything in his power to keep it that way, even if it meant submitting to Neal’s wrath in the short term.

He unfastened his seatbelt and adjusted his sling. His arm was hurting, throbbing down to the bone, a nagging reminder he should have taken more medication before they left, but he’d make it a few more hours. He opened the door to follow Neal into the marina when his phone rang. “Diana, what is it?”

“You know the account Neal got us to run, the one that paid for a charter flight scheduled for yesterday afternoon?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Neal and Kate were supposed to be on that flight.” To disappear together. Was that why Neal was mad—because Peter had tried to help, and in the process he’d interfered in their escape plan?

“Well, the NYPD just sent a bomb squad to the airstrip. The manager found four packets of C4 hidden in one of the aircraft under the passenger seats, with a remote detonator. Peter, it was the same plane.”

“He was never going to let them walk.” Peter went onto full alert, the ache in his arm paling into insignificance. Kate had provided the lead to the yacht; for all they knew, this could be a trap. “Di, I’ll call you back.”

He flung himself out of the car, scanning the surroundings for Neal. He wouldn’t have gone into the café. Peter skirted the building to the marina and hurried along the waterfront, checking each dock as he passed. 

Neal was halfway down the C Dock, conferring with Mozzie. Gleaming expensive yachts loomed on either side. Among them, Peter glimpsed a partial name: _Il Dragó_ —so they’d found it. They could catch the guy. Maybe that would soothe Neal’s bad mood.

A movement on board the neighboring vessel, _Caterina II_ , caught Peter’s eye; a man on the deck who looked vaguely familiar. Probably a celebrity; this whole place had the smell of money. Peter started up the pier.

Without warning, a heavy boom swung out from the _Caterina_ , fast and deadly, heading right for Neal and Mozzie.

“Neal! Get down!” shouted Peter. 

Neal turned in time to duck, but the metal bar caught Mozzie unawares, cracking the side of his head and pitching him into the water, a dead weight. Neal cast off his coat and dove after him. 

Heart in his throat, Peter ran to where they’d been. The surface of the water was green, oily and unbroken. There was a spatter of blood on the pier. Peter climbed onto the _Caterina_ and hitched the boom to stop its swinging—the line had been cut—and stared at the water in an agony of indecision. He’d be next to useless with his injury, but if Neal needed him—

There was no sign of the man who’d been on board the _Caterina_ , no one within hailing distance who could help. Peter grabbed a couple of lifesavers, jumped back down to the dock and dropped them into the water.

It felt like an eternity since Neal and Mozzie had gone under. Too long, he had to do something. He tore off the sling and his coat, kicked off his shoes, and was about to jump in when Neal broke the surface, gasping and coughing, towing an unconscious Mozzie.

Peter teetered on the edge of the dock but managed to draw back before gravity caught him irrevocably. 

From the water, Neal looked up, pale and struggling to keep Mozzie afloat, and Peter set about getting them out of there.

 

*

 

Arms burning with effort, Neal dragged Moz’s lifeless body up a metal ladder fixed to the dock, and then Peter was there, reaching down to help, asking a barrage of worried questions, and Neal knew his part was done. Peter would take it from here. 

“I’m okay.” Neal collapsed onto the boards, shivering and aching, and having swallowed far more of the Hudson than he cared to think about. Numb with fear. Kate had warned him over and over it was dangerous. What if Moz… What if Neal had sent him here to his death?

Peter started CPR, and Neal levered himself to sitting, to be ready in case he had to take a turn. There were a few other people around now—someone draped a musty blanket about Neal’s shoulders and asked him something—but all Neal could see was Peter, determined and steadfast, alternating two breaths and thirty compressions, and Mozzie lying pale and silent with a bleeding scalp.

Neal had been intent on razing his life to the ground, convinced it would bring Kate back to him, but that belief now seemed a deadly superstition, and his earlier resentment of Peter and Elizabeth—for having the luxury of each other and being prepared to gamble it on a whim, as if it were nothing—shameful and unjustified.

There was more too, a deeper anger, resistance to emotions he hadn’t been able to acknowledge, but before he could confront them—

Peter jerked back, and Mozzie rolled to his side, retching seawater onto Peter’s pants. 

Neal slumped with relief, but it was short-lived. “Peter, you’re bleeding.” 

A dark wet patch had spread down Peter’s shirt sleeve, staining his hands.

“I’ll live.” Peter sat back on his heels, gripping his arm with a wince. “Just pulled my stitches. You okay?” He’d taken off his sling at some point—and his coat and his shoes. They were strewn carelessly across the dock.

Neal nodded, meeting his eye, grateful and sorry, and then an ambulance arrived, and there was no more chance to talk.

“I won’t go, it’s a trap,” Mozzie insisted, increasingly hysterical, as the EMT checked him over and firmly advised him to go to the hospital for shots and a CT scan. Neal tried to talk him around, but Moz was in shock, his protective paranoia at its most obstinate. 

Peter came over, a fresh bandage on his arm, and overrode Mozzie. “Do it for El,” he said in his firm FBI agent voice. “You know how she worries.”

Mozzie frowned, but miraculously caved.

Peter beckoned Neal aside. “I’ll go in the ambulance with him. You bring the car and meet us there.”

“Peter.” Neal didn’t know what to say, how to start to apologize.

Peter raised his good hand as if to grip Neal’s shoulder—as he had many times before after a narrow escape—then dropped it again, but there was no reproach in his voice. “Mozzie’s going to be okay.”

Neal’s eyes stung. “I know. It’s not that. The things I said to you—” 

He’d been vicious, deliberately pushing Peter away, but Peter’s brown gaze stayed steady. “We can deal with that later. Are you okay to drive?”

Neal nodded. He wished he could hug Peter or at least ask for that shoulder clasp, some meagre physical gesture to prove he hadn’t screwed things up beyond repair, but this wasn’t the time or the place. “Lenox Hill,” he said instead. “See you there.”

He sat in the car, the dirty old blanket the only thing protecting the upholstery from his brine-soaked clothes, and stared unseeing through the windshield. What now? If he couldn’t slough off his life and break all ties with the FBI, Kate wouldn’t accept him, and he didn’t know how to let her go, or who he was without her, without even the hope of her.

He tried to picture her from the night before, warm and lithe in his arms, but his brain tricked him, instead serving up the wholly unsexy image of Peter’s lips on Mozzie’s pale, unresponsive mouth—and with it, the unbidden, aching sense that he needed CPR himself, Peter breathing new life into him.


	4. Chapter 4

El found Neal first, when she got to the hospital. There was a family in the corner of the waiting room, and a few couples and parents with children by the window, but El’s eyes were drawn to Neal immediately, and her heart swelled with relief. He was damp and rumpled and very much alive, checking out the contents of the various vending machines. 

She went over and held up her bag. “Neal. Here, I brought clean clothes for you all. Where’s Peter?”

“Elizabeth.” He turned, his real self in his face, none of the cold restraint of that morning, and she automatically dropped the bag and hugged him. He stiffened, but after a second his arms closed around her, and his chest heaved in a sigh.

“I’m so glad you’re all okay,” she said into his salty shirt front, letting herself rest there a minute. Another stolen embrace. She was turning into a recidivist thief herself.

Neal dropped his arms and stepped back. “Peter pulled his stitches. They’re sewing him back up now. If you ask, I’m sure they’ll let you see him.”

Which didn’t explain why Neal was out here alone. A week ago, he would have been at Peter’s side, teasing or hovering protectively. They must still be at odds. At least Peter’s injury wasn’t any more serious than it had been. “And Moz?”

“Getting shots and a CT scan, but the doctor said it looks promising.” Neal’s mouth turned up. “Lucky for us, he has a hard head. He’s determined not to be admitted overnight, though.”

“He can come home with us,” said El. “I’ll torment him by declaring the wine rack off-limits, and he can help me make sure Peter wears his sling.”

Neal’s face clouded. “Elizabeth, this is all my fault.”

“No,” said El. “And this is no time for playing the martyr, so please don’t.” She picked up the bag and dug out a t-shirt, underwear and some sweatpants of Peter’s, and a plastic trash bag. “Here, you’ll feel better when you’ve changed. You can put your dirty clothes in the bag.”

He took the clothes but didn’t move. “You and Peter,” he said, lowering his voice. “Elizabeth, I know how much you love each other. How can you be okay with him wanting someone else? Suggesting what he did? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, babe.” El shook her head. He really didn’t get it.

“Excuse me.” A young girl was trying to get past them to the vending machine. 

El drew Neal to some seats, away from everyone else. “Listen, Peter loving you doesn’t take anything away from me, and me loving you doesn’t lessen what I feel for him. Love is generous, you know? And lives are full and complicated and messy. We know we can count on each other, no matter what, and everything else is, I don’t know, up for negotiation.”

He massaged his palm with the ball of his thumb. “I thought Kate and I had that. I thought we’d always be together. It’s been eight years, all through prison. I can’t—I can’t give her up.”

“I get it.” El met his eye, willing him to believe her. “I really do. And you know, we’re not actually asking you to give her up. It was an offer—an opportunity if you wanted it. And you don’t. That’s okay. We still care about you. I really hope—I’d hate to lose you as a friend, and I know Peter would too.”

“You want to be friends.” He regarded her skeptically.

“If that’s all you want from us, then yeah.” She gave a small shrug and added wryly, “Well, I’d like to think we already are.”

“Of course.” It was less than convincing, and there was no answering smile. He looked sad, and she didn’t know what she else could say that would help. After a minute of sitting together in silence, she gave him a comforting pat. 

“Go on, get changed. You smell like rotting seaweed.” And she went to find Peter.

 

*

 

When they got home, El and Neal helped Mozzie upstairs to the guest room, El making jokes as they negotiated the stairs about opening St. Elizabeth’s Home for Convalescents and installing an elevator. Peter, who was back in his sling and on opiates to boot, stayed downstairs.

Jones had been called back to the office to oversee a case, and Diana was at the airstrip conferring with the bomb squad. The house felt empty after the activity of the morning, but it was probably also the adrenaline crash. Peter shrugged it off and went to put on coffee.

Satchmo intercepted him, whining and pawing at the back door, so Peter got his leash and a plastic bag and took him for a slightly unsteady walk up and down the street, coming back to find El in the kitchen making sandwiches while Neal drifted around the living room, apparently unable to settle. 

That he was wearing Peter’s clothes was neither here nor there. He wasn’t wearing them by choice; it didn’t change yesterday’s answer or this morning’s smack-down. Still, the intimacy of it caught at Peter’s heart, and he had to bend and unclip Satchmo’s leash to hide his flush. Since he was working one-handed, he fumbled it, and Neal came and silently took over, somehow managing the transfer without making skin contact.

Satchmo trotted off to the kitchen and his water bowl, and Peter straightened, more or less composed. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he told Neal, who was absentmindedly winding the leash around his hand.

Neal looked wary. “Shoot.”

“I need a sketch artist.” Peter stepped back, retreating to the couch. “I saw a man at the dock just before the accident, and if I take it to the Bureau, there’s no telling whether Fowler will get wind.”

“I can do that.” Neal looked around, grabbed a pencil and eraser and a legal pad from the dining table and sat next to Peter on the couch, tearing off a page and turning it to the unlined side.

And wearing Peter’s clothes. This was ridiculous, Peter had to put aside his feelings, accept Neal’s rejection and work the damned case. He closed his eyes, focusing on his memory of the man on the yacht. He’d only caught a glimpse of him, but… “I’ve seen him before somewhere. It’s bugging me.”

“What did he look like?” asked Neal, and as Peter started talking, he made notes. After a while, he put pencil to paper and started drawing. 

It was slow, there were several false starts, and it took a lot of back and forth. El brought out sandwiches and glasses of juice on a tray, and they worked through lunch. Peter started to wonder if he was confabulating, projecting a celebrity’s features onto his memory of the man, but then Neal’s eyes widened. 

“Wait a minute.” He tore off another page, flipped it and sketched out a face—confidently now, no amendments or erasures. His head bent over the page. Peter watched, mesmerized more by his skill than the emerging picture as he filled in eyes, nose, mouth, cheek contours. It only took a couple of minutes, and the finished piece looked good enough to hang in a museum. “Is this him?”

“Yeah.” Peter took the page, focusing on the man rather than the artwork. Definitely familiar. “Who is it?”

“Vincent Adler.”

“The Ponzi scheme guy?” That would explain why he looked familiar. Peter had spent three months on that case, eight years ago. All the leads had been dead ends. He dropped the sketch on the coffee table, stood up and called Jones. “I need you to drop everything and go to the West 79th Street Boat Basin. The man behind Fowler is Vincent Adler, and he’s still there.”

“Adler, the Wall Street scam artist?” Jones excused himself in the background. “Well, if that’s the case, we don’t have to worry about not having evidence.”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Two billion in stolen pension funds is a good start. You need to go in ASAP, hard and fast. For all we know, Neal and I spooked him, and he’s about to sail off with the music box. Take Diana and SWAT, and be careful. He’s dangerous.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I don’t have a badge,” said Peter. Not to mention the injured arm and the medication. “This one’s for you—if you get Adler, it’ll make your career. Good luck, Jones.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” Clinton disconnected, and Peter lowered his phone. 

Neal was still on the couch, staring at the sketch as if it might bite him. “Kate said it was someone I knew.”

Peter was about to ask, but El moved in and stole his spot on the couch. “You knew Vincent Adler?”

She must have come in during the phone call.

“That’s how Kate and I met,” said Neal, numbly. “She was his assistant. I worked in Acquisitions.”

“You worked for him?” Peter pulled the coffee table back and sat on it facing the others, fascinated as always by the details of Neal’s past. Trying to make sense of the current conspiracy.

“Nick Halden did.”

“Oh, you were conning him.”

Neal didn’t deny it or insert any of his usual verbal sidesteps. “It was 2003. He beat me to the punch—took everything from all of us.”

“If Kate was his PA, she could have been in on it,” said El gently. 

Neal shook his head, his gaze returning to the sketch. “He cleaned her out too. We had to start again from nothing.”

Peter was unconvinced. “Neal, if she was on your side, she wouldn’t have run. She would have stayed here and helped you bring him to justice. She would have told you what was going on.”

“You don’t know anything. She didn’t leave because of Adler. She left because—” Neal gulped, his hands balling into fists. “She left because of me. Because I wasn’t enough.”

El rubbed his shoulder. “Babe, I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I wouldn’t trust her,” continued Neal, tight and pained. “And because I can’t not care about you, however hard I try.” He looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide, obviously fighting back tears, and the anguish on his face hit Peter like a blow.

The urge to reach out, to hug Neal, tore him apart, but the slightest suggestion he was taking advantage of Neal’s crisis could irreparably damage _their_ trust. El might be able to comfort Neal, lean against his side without risking his ire, but Peter had created a chasm with his proposition, casting the basis of their partnership into doubt, and if anyone was going to bridge the gap, it had to be Neal. 

 

*

 

“There’s nothing wrong with caring about people,” said Elizabeth, and Neal knew she meant well, that in the safe, easy world of the Burkes, with their house and their dog and their steady jobs, what she was saying was true.

But Kate didn’t live in that world anymore. Kate had been out on the margins, running scared for months, counting on Neal to come when she called. That was all she’d asked for, for him to leave and not look back. 

And he couldn’t.

A hurricane was ripping through him, shredding his certainties and churning his emotions. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, who he wanted, or who he wanted to be. Instinctively, he reached for the one stable person in the world. “Peter—”

It came out practically a sob, but there was no time to be embarrassed, because his reaching out broke the stalemate between them. Peter tumbled onto the couch next to him, pulling him into a tight one-armed hug, cradling his head against Peter’s broad shoulder. It was terrifying, because Neal didn’t know what he’d implicitly agreed to by asking for this, but it felt wonderful too. Exactly what he needed. He closed his eyes and shut out the future, the past, everything beyond this room, this moment. 

Or tried to. Here, in the thus-far platonic circle of Peter’s embrace, he found himself distracted from his existential worries, couldn’t help imagining what might happen if he raised his head and met Peter’s lips. Or if Peter pushed down the waistband of Neal’s borrowed sweatpants, and his briefs, and put his hand on Neal’s cock. 

His heart started beating double time. It wasn’t something he’d considered before, not consciously, but knowing Peter must have thought about it and more, it was impossible not to wonder. And then he was getting hard, his skin flushing with awareness, and he pulled free before Peter noticed. 

Before Neal gave in and betrayed Kate in the most basic way possible. 

Peter released him immediately, without fuss. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Neal. No. Wasn’t it obvious?

Peter cleared his throat. “Neal, there’s something else you need to know, and there’s no good time to tell you,” he said, staying right there in his spot next to Neal. “The charter flight you and Kate were supposed to take yesterday—the manager of the airstrip found a bomb on the plane.”

“What?” Neal had no idea what he’d expected from _something else you need to know_ , but it sure as hell hadn’t been that. He was still distracted by Peter’s proximity and his own arousal. What was Peter saying?

“Enough C4 to blow up the whole plane.” Peter looked grim. “Adler was never going to let you go.”

 

*

 

“But you’re safe now,” said El, because Neal was sitting beside her, so tense he might shatter, obviously still miserable about Kate. “Clinton and Diana will catch Adler, and then Kate won’t have to run or hide. I’m sure you and she can work it out.”

Peter sent her an oblique look past Neal, and she shrugged. If they cared about Neal, they had to be supportive.

Neal looked like he was about to say something, but there was a thump from upstairs and a loud groan. “Mozzie,” said El. 

“I should check on him.” Neal sprung up.

“I’ll come too. He’s supposed to be resting.” El eyed Peter, who was looking noticeably worse for the wear himself. “You need to rest too, hon. Here—” She gave him the TV remote. “Why don’t you see if Clinton’s made the news yet?”

They found Mozzie on the floor of the guest room, grunting as he struggled to lace a pair of Peter’s shoes onto his bare feet. His own shoes had been ruined and discarded at the hospital, and he’d either rejected the slippers or failed to notice them tucked under the end of the bed. “You can’t keep me here.”

“You’re not being detained, Moz,” said Neal. “Calm down.”

Moz gave up on the shoes and heaved a gloomy sigh. “My chest hurts. And I’m karmically indebted to the Man.”

“Your chest hurts because CPR leaves bruising,” said El, as Neal helped him back onto the bed. “And I hereby absolve you of your debt. I’ll even find you a change of clothes, if you like.”

In an earlier fit of mischief, she’d given him one of Peter’s Quantico sweatshirts. He glanced down at it now and shrugged. 

“What were you going to do, exit through the bathroom window?” said Neal. “You nearly drowned, Moz, and you have a lump on your head the size of a white truffle. You need to rest.” 

“Very paternal,” said Mozzie. “The PTA will suit you well.”

“He’s babbling,” Neal told El. “Maybe we should—”

“Jones just called,” interrupted Peter from the doorway. “They got him.” He was out of his sling again and seemingly oblivious to the fact. El frowned and went to physically force him back into it.

“Got who?” said Mozzie.

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets. “Vincent Adler.”

“The Scourge of the Financial World—why am I not surprised? Did he have his friends War, Famine and Pestilence with him too?”

“Did they find the music box?” asked Neal.

Peter made a face. “They’re still looking.”

“You did good, all of you,” said El. It was an impressive coup, even if most of the glory would go to Clinton. “I’m proud.”

Neal’s hands were dug deep in his pockets now, stretching the gray marl fabric of his sweatpants. He looked at Peter. “I need to talk to him.”

“I’m suspended; I can’t authorize that.” It was a blatant excuse, and Neal looked unimpressed. Peter sighed and put his spare arm around El’s shoulders. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And in the meantime, we can all relax,” said El. “It’s over.”


	5. Chapter 5

Adler had barely aged a day. He sat in the FBI interview room as if it were the boardroom at his old firm, his tailored jacket perfectly smooth across his shoulders. His hands perfectly still. Anyone else would be fidgeting.

Neal had objected when Peter insisted on taking him home to change before they came to the Bureau, thinking it a delaying tactic, but now he was grateful. Adler had been his mark and his mentor, and now he’d become his nemesis. Neal was going to need all his armor for this, to show that despite the prison time and the parole, he’d come out ahead. Byron’s best suit was a necessary part of that. 

He was really going to miss Byron’s sense of style.

But there’d be plenty of time to mourn that later, from whatever exotic location he and Kate chose. For now, he took one last look at Adler through the one-way glass, nodded an acknowledgement to Jones and Peter, and let himself into the interview room.

At the sight of him, Adler grinned like an apex predator scenting prey. “Hello, Neal. Long time, no see.”

Neal unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down, deliberately straightening his sleeves. “Where’s the music box?”

“Not even a ‘hello’?” Adler’s lips curled. “I’m hurt, Neal. I thought we were friends.”

“Cut the crap, Adler. We were never friends.” Neal kept his voice cool, but he couldn’t entirely disguise his anger as he went on. “You’ve been terrorizing Kate, you tried to have us killed—”

“A little melodramatic, wouldn’t you say?” Adler arched his eyebrow. “Kate and I had an understanding, one that she broke. She was to acquire the music box for me—”

“Where is it?”

Adler ignored him. “—while keeping her distance from the FBI and you. And in return, I was to keep her embarrassing little secret.”

Disgust stuck in Neal’s throat, thick and dry. “You were blackmailing her.”

“Want to know how?” Adler smirked like the devil. “After all, now she’s betrayed me, our deal no longer applies.”

“No.” Neal stared him down, refusing to betray any sign of curiosity, but his mind was working furiously. What did Adler have on Kate? What _could_ he have on her? Something sexual? No. No, she wouldn’t. Whatever it was, he was bursting with malicious satisfaction at the knowledge, and dangling it in front of Neal like a poisoned treat. 

His smirk widened. “Oh, I think you do. You don’t know her, Neal. You never have. She—”

“We’re done here.” Neal stopped listening. He didn’t want any part of this twisted game, wouldn’t let Adler use him for revenge. Whatever secrets Kate had were her own. He stood up and walked out without listening to another word, and he didn’t stop.

Peter called after him, and he passed Hughes in the hallway, but he kept going, taking the stairs when the elevator didn’t immediately arrive.

Adler’s arrest had been televised, and Neal knew there’d be ongoing coverage, footage from eight years ago dredged from the archives, intercut with the Coast Guard and FBI choppers converging on his yacht near Sandy Hook. Kate must have seen; she must know he was in custody.

Neal knew where to find her.

 

*

 

“Peter.” Hughes beckoned from the doorway. “I know you’re on suspension, but I need a word.” 

Peter had been about to go after Neal, but Hughes was using his urgent, no-nonsense voice. 

Clinton nodded, mistaking his hesitation for concern about Adler. “It’s okay, I’ve got this.”

“I know you have.” Peter clapped him on the shoulder and reluctantly followed Hughes back to his office. Neal was out of his tracker and could leave town at any time, and Peter’s only means of reaching him was by phone, which he might well choose not to answer. 

On the other hand, Mozzie was recuperating at Peter’s place; Peter was ninety percent sure that, after a day like today, Neal wouldn’t leave town without saying a proper goodbye to his friend.

“How’s your arm?” asked Hughes, once they were seated across from each other.

“It’s fine.” In fact, it was aching again, but Peter was doing a pretty good job of tuning it out. He’d take more pills when he got home. “What’s going on, Reese?”

Hughes steepled his hands. “The DOJ is asking questions about Caffrey’s deal with OPR.”

Peter sat up. “What kind of questions?”

“There are some irregularities.” Hughes waved the details aside. “Frankly, I think they’re unwilling to let go of such a valuable asset. If we want to contest the deal, then the DOJ is willing to take action to reinstate Caffrey in the anklet.”

“We’ve seen the Mentor files,” said Peter. “Neal negotiated his release in good faith.” 

“The Dutchman, Ghovat, Keller—you’ve closed a lot of impressive cases together. Are you sure you’re willing to let him go?” Hughes’ expression was impassive, but he was watching Peter closely, as if this were a test.

It was. For a moment, Peter couldn’t think past the temptation to get Neal back on the radar, where he couldn’t run, where Peter could always find him. Back in his two-mile radius. Back at his desk on Monday morning. 

Shackled against his will. 

Peter licked his lips. Reading between the lines, Hughes was saying the White Collar Unit had the casting vote. Peter’s call would make all the difference. He could keep Neal with him for another few years, give him time to settle into a law-abiding life and find his feet. Maybe now Adler was off the streets, Kate would decide to stay too, but Peter could keep Neal in his life as a friend. It didn’t have to be goodbye. 

“Yeah,” said Peter. “I’m saying we should let him go.”

 

*

 

Neal stepped onto the observation deck of the Empire State Building at midnight, confident he was in the right place—Kate had always loved the classics—but looking around, his certainty wavered. There were only couples here, most leaning against each other, pointing out landmarks and laughing, one fighting in low tense voices. But no Kate. Maybe he was too early—or too late.

There was nothing to do but wait and hope. He found some binoculars away from the other people and bent to see if he could see June’s place.

“Looking sharp,” said a familiar voice, and his hat was stolen from his head.

“Kate.” He turned to her. “You’re here.”

“You made it.” She grinned, almost carefree, almost her old self, and flipped his hat onto her head with a flick of her wrist. He pulled her into his arms, and she hugged him back. “You got Adler. I didn’t see you on the news reports.”

“The FBI got him. I wasn’t there. It’s been a hell of a day.” He stroked her hair. “And now here we are.”

He could feel her relax another degree. “Here we are,” she agreed. “And you’ve done what you wanted, said your goodbyes. We can leave now.”

“We can.” He bent and kissed her, and he could practically taste her relief. He grinned, teasing. “But what’s the rush? Think about it—the FBI didn’t find the music box. Alder must have hidden it somewhere, and given the extremes he went to to get it, it must be worth a fortune. If we can find it before the feds, we’ll be rich.”

She pulled away. “Neal, you’re never going to leave.”

“I will, I swear. Just one more job: you, me, Moz.” He angled the hat on her head, making her look like Lauren Bacall, and affected a Bogart accent. “It’ll be like old times, doll.”

Kate shook her head in disbelief. “You’d steal it out from under Burke’s nose.”

“Peter would understand.” It sounded false as he said it, like someone he used to be. The Neal from before prison, before Kate had left him, back when it was good between the two of them, and he hadn’t given a crap about anyone or anything else. He rushed on. “We’ll unlock its secrets together, you and me.”

Peter would love that, opening the box, figuring it out. He could never resist a puzzle. Between them, they could—But no. Neal was leaving with Kate as soon as he had the box. He’d been searching for it forever. And it would make a heck of a story to tell Alex, next time they ran into her.

“We’ll get the box, and we’ll go,” he decided. 

“No,” said Kate. “We won’t. At a certain point you have to choose—who you are, what you want. This is that moment, Neal.”

Neal bit back annoyance. Why the urgency to leave town? How could she stand here in the glow of it, the lights and life of the Big Apple, and want to go? He took her by the shoulders, about to play salesman and convince her, but something else tumbled out of his mouth instead. “Adler said he was blackmailing you.”

Kate paled, stepped back, bumping into the barrier, the city spread out behind her like a wonderland. “You talked to him. He told you.”

“I didn’t let him,” said Neal. “I walked out. If there’s something you have to say to me, I want to hear it from you, not that bastard.” Her eyes were wide and unblinking, her body starting to shake. He took her hand. “Is there anything?”

“Let’s just go,” she whispered. “Now. We could steal a car and leave it all behind.”

“I love you,” he told her. “Trust me.”

She nodded and turned to face the city, tracing her fingers along the metalwork that braced the glass. “Adler paid off my student loan and—I had some other debts.”

Neal waited, giving her all the time she needed.

“In return, I had to not go to Chicago. To stay here. He suspected you were trying to con him, and—”

“And he wanted a spy.” It explained so much. Neal waited for anger or outrage, but he just felt empty. 

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I loved you, even then. I wouldn’t have been with you if I hadn’t, but I’d made a deal with him, and it didn’t feel like betraying you, because you were conning him and me—all of us. It was like being a secret agent.”

“Did you know what Adler was planning?” 

“No, I’d already stopped helping him by then. He was angry. He said he could have made something of me, if only I had a little loyalty.” Her laugh was choked and bitter. “He said I owed him, and then he left and took everything.”

Neal turned her to face him. “So that’s how he’s been controlling you.”

“He threatened to tell you. And later, when I said I didn’t care anymore, that I’d tell you myself—then he framed you for a diamond heist so Burke would throw you back in prison. Just flexing his fucking muscles to keep me in line.” 

Neal shook his head, trying to absorb the truth. Their story had never been what he’d thought. “You could have told me before, years ago.”

“No, I couldn’t.” She looked unhappy. “The Kate you loved wasn't a liar or a spy. You were caught up in the fairytale of us, and you were so wonderful, I did everything I could to be who you wanted. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You make me sound like an asshole,” said Neal, trying to make it a joke. Peter, Moz, Alex, even Adler—they’d all seen Kate more clearly than he had. How could he have missed it? Was he really so self-absorbed?

She shook her head. “No, I was the asshole. I should have told you the day you told me your real name. I should have—” Tears glistened on her cheeks. 

He hated seeing her upset. “Don’t. I love you.”

“I wish that was true. I wish I really was that girl.” She kissed his cheek. “But you want to stay, Neal, admit it. You want to live this life, and I can’t. I’m done with it. Let me be the asshole for once. Even if it means saying goodbye.”

He could argue, insist she take him with her, but not if it kept her playing the eternal role of The Girlfriend. Besides, Peter had been right to say he had a life here—June and Moz and Alex. Even the White Collar team. And Peter and Elizabeth at the center. Kate had been telling him since the start, and he’d denied it, but she was right. He couldn’t leave. He didn’t want to.

She cupped his cheek. “Look at it this way, you’ve got people here I can trust to watch your back. I know they’ll make sure you’re all right. I’m taking myself off-duty.”

“Kate.” He stared, finally truly seeing her and overwhelmed: she was tough and brave and self-sufficient, and she was a stranger. One who had her own life to lead. She’d spent years caught in a vortex of protecting him—from Adler and prison and the reality of herself, and it would be beyond churlish to resent her for any of it when he’d never taken the time to see her for who she was. “You’ve been my guardian angel, and I didn’t even realize.” His throat was so tight, he had to work to get the words out. “I thought I was the one saving you.”

“We saved each other.” She kissed him, a Bordeaux bottle of a kiss—but without any secret, hidden messages this time.

 

*

 

At noon the next day, after less than five hours’ sleep, he knocked on the Burkes’ front door. 

Peter answered. “Neal.”

“Peter.” For a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

Peter had the sports section of the _Times_ stuffed into his sling on top of his arm, and a cup of coffee in his injured-side hand, precarious enough that Neal nearly reached to rescue it before it spilled, but having opened the door, Peter took it back into his left and raised it to his lips.

Neal hid his nerves behind a layer of irony. “You going to invite me in?”

Peter stood back and jerked his head in invitation, and though his eyes widened when he registered Neal’s bags, he didn’t comment.

“How’s the war wound?” asked Neal, and then, because Peter was clearly fine from the way he was moving, “Is Mozzie here?”

That got a wry smile. “Mozzie’s agreed to stay a couple more days until his head’s healed, but he’s not here right now. El took him to the store to stock up on lactose-free groceries.” The crinkles around Peter’s eyes deepened. “I’m a bit concerned we might have inadvertently adopted him.”

Neal laughed and put his bags on the coffee table. “Don’t worry, once he’s feeling himself again, he’ll be out the door like a flash.”

“I’m counting on it.” Peter stood by the armchair, watching him. “Coffee?”

Neal ignored the offer. He had more important things to talk about. “I brought your clothes back.” He indicated the smaller of his two bags, which held Peter’s sweatpants and shirt from the day before, now laundered. Then he unzipped the larger bag, pulled the sides away and carefully unwrapped the cloth he’d used to cushion its contents. Amber caught the light and glowed; golden cherubs gleamed. “And I brought this.”

“The music box.” Peter came and sat beside him for a closer look, opened it and listened to its tinkly tune, then turned his attention back to Neal. “Where did you get it?”

“Kate gave me her best guess of where it might be. She was Adler’s PA, remember?” The intel had been a parting gift. But the less Peter knew about how he’d acquired it—his second heist in the last forty-eight hours, this time breaking into the Upper West Side home of an old associate of Adler’s, a jeweler who specialized in antique clockwork, and cracking his private safe—the better. 

Luckily, Peter didn’t ask. He was headed down a different track. “This is evidence.”

“No. Adler never laid hands on it. Fowler took it directly to a third party, and I retrieved it.” Neal couldn’t prove that; he hoped Peter would take it on faith. “Anyway, the FBI arrested Adler for his Ponzi scheme, and the music box has nothing to do with that.”

Peter caved. “Okay.”

It was like a gift, or a sign. Neal relaxed. They were only a foot apart, and he was aware of every inch of Peter, his neck, his blunt fingers and long legs, and those warm brown eyes. Neal folded his arms so he’d keep his hands to himself. “I’m not coming back to work for the FBI.”

“You’re leaving?” Peter’s face went blank. He looked at the amber box. Did he think it was a consolation prize, a goodbye?

Neal licked his lips. “I’m going to stay in New York and work with you, Moz and Elizabeth to solve the mystery of the music box. Whatever we uncover, there should be a decent finder’s fee, not to mention returning the box itself to the Russians.”

Peter nodded, his gaze still fixed on the glowing amber. “And then what? What happens at the end of this treasure hunt?”

“Then I’m thinking I’ll take you and Elizabeth out for an obscenely expensive dinner to celebrate.” Neal laced his hands together and clarified, just to be sure, “I’m talking about a date.”

Peter finally looked up. He swallowed. “You know you don’t have to do that.”

Neal wasn’t sure if Peter were giving him an out, saying they could stay friends if Neal wanted, or if he meant Neal didn’t have to romance them to win their affections. Either way, the answer was the same. “I know. I want to.”

He’d fought his feelings because to accept them would have a betrayal—of Kate, of the future he’d believed in—but that future had been a fairytale, and he and Kate had set each other free last night. He didn’t want to fight anymore or hide from the truth. If Peter and Elizabeth could love each other and him, that was proof of something real and true beyond monogamy, beyond jealousy, and that proof gave Neal permission to listen to the full orchestra of his emotions instead of trying to silence every instrument but one. He’d always have a place in his heart for Kate—for his dream of her as well as the woman she really was—but he loved his friends too, and Peter and Elizabeth, with a love so deep and fundamental, it was the ground he walked on. 

“I need some time,” he said. 

“I get it,” said Peter. “Take all the time you need.”

And until then, they’d be working together, unpicking the mystery. Neal would figure out life after parole, and they’d get to know each other properly, as equals. He never wanted to get years down the road with someone and discover he didn’t truly know them, ever again. 

He met Peter’s eye, saw the warmth and love and determination there, and suppressed a surge of desire. There’d be time for that later. They had so much time. “So what do you say,” he said, making it half invitation, half challenge, “are you in?”

Peter smiled. “I’m in.”

“Me too,” said El from the doorway, and Neal didn’t know how long she’d been listening, but her smile was luminous.


	6. Epilogue: five months later

They got back to Neal’s apartment—which had also been their treasure-hunting headquarters —around one in the morning. El was tipsy from the champagne and cognac, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with excitement. Peter thought she’d never been more beautiful. And Neal was also at his finest, looking as comfortable in his tuxedo as he did in his natty Rat Pack suits. He shut the door after them and sent Peter a laughing glance. “I have champagne on ice, but I’m starting to think water might be a better plan.”

“Coffee.” Peter didn’t want to miss a moment of this night. He tugged his bowtie free and loosened his collar, looking around. Mozzie’s fractal-radar workshop had been packed away, along with all the maps and charts they’d used to locate the U-boat. The adventure was over—and a new one beginning.

El grabbed Neal’s hand and drew him close as if they were about to dance. Or kiss. Peter held his breath, but she just grinned up at Neal. “You know, babe, when you talked about taking us out for a fancy dinner, I never dreamed you meant we’d be the guests of honor at a banquet at the Russian Consulate. The repatriation ceremony was a particularly nice touch.”

“The check was a nice touch too,” said Neal. 

Peter grinned, but Neal was right. Even split five ways with Mozzie and Alex, it was a generous reward. Neal had said earlier it almost made up for giving up the art.

Peter moved closer. All these months of working together, waiting, and now they were here, together and alone. He felt like a teenager, nervous and clumsy, but he kept his tone light to match the others’ banter. “It’s an impressive first date. Good luck topping that for our anniversary.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.” Neal met his gaze, and the connection was powerful and real.

“Yeah.”

Neal reached for his hand, pulling him into their circle. “There’s always the corner booth at Donatella’s and a romp in the sheets.”

“You could skip the dinner.” El elbowed him.

Neal laughed and looked at Peter. “What did I tell you?” 

“I think I’m missing something,” said El to no one in particular. “And I think we’ve tortured Peter enough with formal clothes and exotic cuisine.”

“I don’t mind,” said Peter, doing his best to sound convincing.

“Yeah, you do.” Neal grinned, his affection so plain, so full of warmth and acceptance that any doubts that may have lingered from a certain conversation on West 79th Street, all those months ago, evaporated.

El winked at Peter, grabbed Neal’s shoulder and raised up on tiptoe to press her lips to his for the first time. “Hi,” she said, grinning.

“Hi, beautiful.” He carefully tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear with his fingertip. “I see you.” 

He bent and kissed her again, slow and lingering, his hands sliding down her sides to her hips. El twined her arms around his neck and melted against him with a sigh, and Peter nearly groaned out loud at the sight, loving them both with all his heart. Wanting them. Who said lightning never struck twice?

After a long moment, they slowly pulled apart, gazing at each other, then turned to him, both hazy-eyed and intoxicated, and Peter took a final step in, put his arm around El’s waist, hugging her against his side. He met Neal’s eye. “Hey,” he said, quietly. 

“Peter.” Neal’s grin faded, leaving him open and needy. He cupped Peter’s neck and met his lips with so much genuine feeling, so much certainty and heat, Peter began to tremble. This was going to change everything, and he wanted it desperately, but he’d wait if it wasn’t time yet. He could do that. 

“You know, we can take this as slow as you want.” Because the last thing he wanted was to push too hard. Whatever expectations they’d set up over the last weeks and days and hours, Neal was free to choose, always. 

Neal’s palm was hot against Peter’s neck, his eyes shining. “Great,” he said. “Come to bed.”

 

END


End file.
